


We'll Be Counting Stars

by Dorksidefiker



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 05:03:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14513130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorksidefiker/pseuds/Dorksidefiker
Summary: Thunderclash decides to change tactics.





	We'll Be Counting Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starvonnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starvonnie/gifts).



> A wee bit later than planned, but hopefully I make up for that by making it a bit longer.

Thunderclash’s helm hit Ratchet’s desk with a solid **thunk - thunk - thunk**.  Ratchet didn’t bother looking up, only reaching down to pull out a bottle of high grade, putting it on the desk between them.

 

“I can name two dozen mechs on this ship alone…”

 

The helm came up, red optics brimming with misery.  “I don’t know what I’m doing _wrong._ ”

 

“Well, you’re trying to court _Rodimus_ …”  It was good high grade, flowing like liquid silver from the decantor to the cubes, glowing a gentle blue.  Thunderclash tossed it back so fast he couldn’t possibly have tasted it. “Don’t know why I waste the good stuff on you,” Ratchet grumbled.  “Might as well give you the paint stripper they brew down in the engines.”

 

Thunderclash’s helm went back down.  “I thought he’d _like_ the tiara.  He _said_ he’d look better in a crown than Starscream, and _traditionally_ a Prime has a tiara!”

 

“ _You_ didn’t have a tiara.”  Ratchet picked up his cube, watching the way the high grade clung to the sides.  “And you’d look damn silly in one, too,” he added.

 

Thunderclash let out a heavy sigh, and he held his cube out for a refill.  “Rodimus would look stunning in the one I found. It’s got… what do you call them?  The dangly bits. To frame his face With little bells at the end. And he just… squished it.  Under his pede.”

 

Ratchet watched more of his good high grade disappear down Thunderclash’s intake.

 

“Not that he needs any help to look stunning.”

 

Ratchet poured himself another generous measure, sipping it slowly.  If he was going to have to listen to another rambling treaties on the sublime beauty of Rodimus of Nyon, then by Primus he was going to be well lubricated.

 

* * *

 

 

Let it never be said that Thunderclash couldn’t learn from his missteps.

 

The two most important things he learned from the Tiara Incident (the third being that Rodimus hated hats of _all_ kinds) were that the co-captain of the Lost Light wanted things that he could _use_ , and that for the time being anonymity was Thunderclash’s dearest friend.  He’d let the thoughtfulness of the gifts win Rodimus over first, _then_ he’d reveal himself as the giver.

 

Ratchet had agreed that it was a good plan, and if there was one mech on the ship who’s judgement he trusted, it was Ratchet.

 

Even if he did think Thunderclash was being utterly and totally ridiculous about Rodimus.

 

The next gift, Rodimus would love.  Thunderclash _knew_ it.  And he was going to make _sure_ it was ready by the time the _Lost Light_ hit that meteor shower.

 

“You know, I should probably thank Megatron.”

 

“Ten?”

 

Thunderclash smiled.  “Sorry, just thinking out loud.”

 

Ten held up the surfboard, inspecting it’s lines with a critical optic.  “Ten,” was his somewhat derisive judgement. He popped the board back on his workbench, gently prying the fins free and bolting them back down with a deft hand.  Thunderclash watched with interest, enjoying the sight of Ten at his work.

 

“You, sir, are a master craftsman,” Thunderclash told him, clapping Ten on the shoulder.  His optics traveled over the still undecorated board, across a dozen half finished projects that littered the bench, and up to the sketches pinned to the wall.

 

Most of the sketches were of Rodimus in a glorious variety of poses, some more dignified than others.  As tempting as they were, Thunderclash had ultimately spoken in favor of a recreation of Nyon’s once famous skyline, which now filled most of the wall.

 

“Ten,” Ten murmured modestly.  “Ten.”

 

It really was Megatron’s fault that Rodimus didn’t have a board anymore, however accidental the destruction the old board might have been.

 

It had just been a matter of bad timing, nothing more.  The board was already badly battered by Rodimus’ latest jaunt amongst the meteors, and Megatron hadn’t been watching where he was bringing his foot down as he’d lectured Rodimus, and-

 

**_crunch_ **

 

Ten nudged Thunderclash’s side, flipping the board over.  “Ten.” He ran his fingers over the magnetic strips. “ _Ten_.”  He pushed down, and the exhaust pipes spat flames, making Thunderclash jump back.  Ten grinned at him, letting up and letting the flames die down. “Ten?”

 

“ _Very_ nice.  It’ll be ready before we hit the next shower?”

 

“ _Ten_.”

 

“Good mech.”

 

* * *

 

 

Rodimus was all but climbing the walls with the need to get out there amongst the meteors when Ten arrived quietly on the bridge, holding out the wrapped up board like he was offering salvation.  “Ten.”

 

“Aw yeah!  Ten my mech, _you_ have just saved your captain’s sanity!”  Rodimus tore open the plain brown wrapping paper, optics lighting up at the sight of Nyon’s long demolished skyline.

 

“Ten.”  Ten extended a paint splattered hand, showing him the card Rodimus had nearly missed in his eagerness.

 

_You belong amongst the stars, where you will shine brightest of them all._

_-Your Most Ardent Admirer_

 

“You sent it to yourself?” Blaster asked innocently, peering over Rodimus’ shoulder.  He continued to give Rodimus a wide-opticed look, ignoring the dark expression flitting across his face.

 

Rodimus cradled the board to his chassis.  “Just for that, no rides for you.”

  
  


The board was possibly the most extravagant of the gifts, but it was by no means the last.  Not was it the most obnoxious by any means.

 

No, _that_ particular honor went to the glitter impregnated armor polish.

 

Ultra Magnus was ready to swear the polish was an infraction of the Autobot Code, the cleaning drones were ready to revolt after a month, and the captain’s chair would never be the same, much to Rodimus’ delight.

 

Thunderclash watched all of this, making note of what gifts that delighted Rodimus most.  He thought over them long and hard as he helped clean out the service droids, getting covered in glitter for his trouble.

 

Given how much Rodimus loved the polish, he considered it well worth it.

 

The important thing, he knew, was that the gifts be _personal_.  Something with real meaning behind it.

 

Something like the Rodimus Stars.

 

“He gives them out to curry favor,” Ratchet insisted the fourth time time the subject came up.  “Passes them out like energon goodies.”

 

“But never without a reason!” Thunderclash ducked under the solvent spray, fumbling for a scrubber.  Glitter swirled down the drain, but it seemed like an unending supply had latched on to him, impressed upon his frame.  He was _almost_ as sparkly as Rodimus.  “Each star he gives out has real _meaning_ .  He gives them out for things that _matter_ to the mechs he gives them to.”

 

“He hasn’t given _you_ one.”  Ratchet handed him another scrubber, careful to avoid the glittering plague cascading off Thunderclash.

 

The convoy turned a wry smile on the medic.  “I think that rather proves my point.”

 

“Anonymous gifts aren’t going to make him like you any better.”

 

“But they make him happy.”

 

Two sighs echoed through the washracks, though Ratchet’s was really more of a spark-deep groan.

 

“I’m starting to understand why he hates you.”

 

Thunderclash turned large red optics on Ratchet, lower lip slowly extending.

 

“You look like a kicked turbofox.  Stop it.”

 

The lip crept out further, and Ratchet didn’t see the scrubber coming until it splattered glitter across his chassis.

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s pretty sweet, whoever he is.”  Rodimus ran a polishing cloth over the surfboard, admiring the skyline of the Acropolis.  “Usually, by now it’s sex toys and blindfolds and ‘meet me in my berth’. So far, the closest he’s come to _that_ is the polish.”

 

Drift shook some of the offending glitter from a pillow.  “When your admirer reveals himself, remind me to thank him.”

 

Rodimus tested the thrusters on the board.  “I like it. It helps me mark my territory.”

 

“Yours… and everyone else’s.”

 

“And I look good while I do it.”  Rodimus grinned, tucking the board away in it’s case.  “He made me a _play list_ , Drift.”

 

“I remember.  I was there.”

 

Swerve had been talked into playing through the whole thing _three times_.  Even Drift had only been able to sit through it twice before retreating to his hab for peace and quiet.

 

* * *

 

 

No one was in officer country when Rodimus’ hab was broken into.

 

It was a well thought out attack, all things considered.  The hab-breakers had timed it perfectly; no one on patrol, Ultra Magnus on the bridge, and Rodimus was doing sword drills with Drift.

 

They even brought their own portable smelter with them, rather than risk being caught on their way out to complete their mission.

 

By the time the fire suppression system went off, it was too late.  The mechs responsible had already scattered, ready to swear on their sparks that they’d been nowhere _near_ the captain’s quarters when the Rodimus Stars were melted into so much slag.

 

If mechs were expecting a dramatic wailing of gnashing of denta from their fiery captain, they were sorely disappointed.  In fact, he was uncharacteristically quiet as he stared into the smelter full of cooling metal.

 

“Get that out of here,” he finally snapped at the security team, pointing at the smelter.  “Just. Get out. I’ll tell you if anything else is missing. Just. Go.”

  


The smelter sat in the hall, quietly cooling, for almost an hour before it disappeared.  The only person who gave that any thought at all was Ultra Magnus, who didn’t much care for evidence going missing under his watch.

 

Only the combined efforts of Ten and Thunderclash kept him from confiscating smelter and metal both when he discovered them in Ten’s workshop.

 

It’d been years since Thunderclash had had to debate the finer points of property law in regards to wrecked property as evidence of a crime, but he _had_ precedent here, and by Primus, he was going to finish this.

 

More importantly, aside from borrowing some of Ten’s tools, he was going to do this _himself_.

 

Thunderclash wasn’t so foolhardy as to ask himself how hard it could be, to cast metal in a mold.  That was a question that just begged trouble.

 

But even without inviting the presence of the human chaos god Murphey, who Thunderclash was more than ready to believe controlled all the universe, the casting was plagued with trouble.  Thunderclash was no smith; he could do field repairs, even a bit of medic-ing in a pinch, but that wasn’t the same as taking molten metal and turning it into art.

 

Even under Ten’s patient tutelage, more and more of what had been left of the Rodimus Stars was lost to bad castings, mismanagement, and the fumblings of untrained hands.

 

But finally, _finally_ !  After months of failing, of scorched hands and cracked, twisted attempts, monthings of _failure_ , Thunderclash had it.

 

A single, perfect star, glittering in the palm of his hand.

 

Thunderclash held it like a sacred relic to some forgotten god of beauty.  The graven image of Rodimus smirked invitingly up at him from his hand, just a little bit cocky, but full of warmth.

 

“Ten?”  Ten held out a simple case, lined in black cloth.  The perfect housing to display the smiling golden face.

 

Thunderclash polished the perfect star one more time before reverently placing it in the case.  He tucked it away with a thankful smile directed at Ten. “I think,” he said, “it’s time I make myself known.”

 

* * *

 

 

Thunderclash was watching him, and it was starting to freak Rodimus out a little.

 

“He’s up to something,” he insisted to Drift, dragging him into a corner of the bar to hiss in his audial, bringing their drinks with him.

 

“Maybe he’s staring because you’re acting like a startled petro-rabbit?”  Drift suggested lightly.

 

“He’s plotting.  He’s gotta be.” Rodimus reached for his drink, and his optics flicked back to the bane of his existence.

 

The king of the fashion disasters was at the bar, chatting amiably with Swerve about the merits of a filmed stage production, and just adapting the production to film.

 

He wouldn’t be so bad with a better paint job.  Whoever told him doing his legs all in red when his top was all blues and whites and golds was a good idea deserved to be shot.  Were those just his natural colors? Hadn’t anyone ever thought to take him aside and tell him that looking like his legs came from a different mech just wasn’t a good look?

 

It was nothing more than an idle thought, and one Rodimus had dismissed more than a few times.  Just one more stupid, perfect thing about stupid, perfect Thunderclash.

 

Drift nudged his shoulder with a little grin.  “Maybe he’s your secret admirer?”

 

“You?  Are not funny.”

 

Rodimus was fairly certain his admirer had either jumped ship or given up on him.  The gifts had stopped coming after the break in, and if that wasn’t a sure sign of lost interest…

 

Drift went on, regardless.  “You’d be the ultimate power couple.  With your looks, and his… everything else-”  Drift ducked the swat Rodimus aimed at his helm.

 

“You’re an evil slagger,” Rodimus grumbled.  “Buy me another drink. You owe me for that.”

 

Drift was still laughing, even as he slid out of reach and slipped between the crowd of mechs filling Swerve’s.  Rodimus glared down into what was left of his cube.

 

Stupid, perfect Thunderclash would have better things to do than send _him_ courting gifts.  Stupid, perfect Thunderclash was more likely to make notes on how Rodimus had screwed up since he’d joined the crew, and oh so helpfully suggest how Rodimus could do things better.

 

Because Thunderclash wanted to _help_ , the absolute _fragger_.

 

Rodimus had a really good brood going when a fresh cube replaced his old one, held delicately between obnoxiously blue fingers.  “Drift asked me to bring this over for you.”

 

Rodimus raised his optics, turning them to the bar to glare at Drift, that traitor.

 

Stupid, perfect, polite, helpful Thunderclash.  Rodimus transferred his flare to the cube of high grade.  Primus below, but it was the good stuff, full of glittery bits and clinging beautifully to the side of the cube.

 

“Also… I wanted to talk to you.”

 

_Ooh yeah, here it comes…_

 

“I wanted to tell you… I’ve wanted to tell you for some time, in fact… that I admire your tenacity.  I have never, in all my functioning, met a mech as dedicated as you are. And I thought… well, that you should have this.”

 

A little black box slides across the table, stopping next to the drink.  Warily, Rodimus flicked the lid open with a finger, optics on Thunderclash’s stupidly ernest face.

 

A Rodimus Star glittered up at him, shining and perfect against black velvet, making his vents hitch.

 

“Where’d you get this?  I thought they were all destroyed-”

 

Of course, he could have still gotten one anywhere.  Just asked someone who’d gotten one-

 

“I made it.  Ten helped, but it was mostly…”  Perfect, stupid Thunderclash toyed with his own drink.  “You deserve to be appreciated. I wanted to show you how much I do.”

 

Rodimus lifted the star from its case, running a finger lightly over the face smiling up at him.

 

It’s sweet.  It’s thoughtful.  It’s Thunderclash.

 

“Join me for a drink?”  Rodimus finally asked, bringing the cube of high grade closer.

 

“I’d love to.”

 

Damn.  He probably was the one behind all the gifts, wasn’t he?  Rodimus was going to have to be _grateful_ to Thunderclash.

 

Strange.  That didn’t seem too bad at all.


End file.
